Chapter 13
Lydia had been spending more and more time in the Chamber. Draco joined her most days—except when he had Quidditch practice or was off with Theo and Blaise. One afternoon, while Draco was at practice, Lydia stumbled across a book on animal sacrifice and its role in ancient magical rituals. She became fixated, pouring over its contents every time she was alone in the Chamber. She wasn’t sure how Draco would react to something like this. Yes, he came from a darker family, steeped in pureblood tradition, but they were still so young. Was she actually considering killing an animal? She didn’t know. Maybe not. But the theory behind it was fascinating.
One potion in particular captured her attention—a brew that mimicked the effects of a Disillusionment Charm. They weren’t supposed to learn that spell until next year, and while Lydia was confident she could master it early, Moody’s damned eye would likely see straight through it. This potion, however, could be far more useful. Its effects lasted up to 10 hours, depending on the dosage, and it didn’t rely on concentration or wandwork. The downside? It required cutting off a bat’s ears—an unpleasant task, to say the least. Still, the potential uses were undeniable. She could move freely through the castle, unnoticed. More importantly, she could access the Chamber even when prefects or teachers were nearby. Very useful indeed. Fortunately, Ginny had mentioned that Harry’s map had been confiscated, which meant he could no longer track her movements. That, at least, was one less thing to worry about.
Reading over the exact steps of the ritual, she felt a growing unease settle in her chest. The potion required the bat to be alive when the process began. First, a containment circle had to be drawn in blood—any blood would do, but human was preferred for potency. The bat was then to be placed at the center, its wings bound with enchanted thread so it couldn’t struggle mid-ritual.
The next part made her stomach twist: the ears had to be removed with a blade. They had to be cut cleanly, without killing the animal—pain and fear were considered essential ingredients, as they were believed to “activate” the disillusionment properties once the potion was brewed. After the ears were severed, they were to be steeped in a mixture of mandrake essence and nightshade, left to ferment under moonlight for seven hours. A drop of the potion on the tongue was all it took for the magic to take hold. With the right dosage, invisibility could last anywhere from 5 minutes to 10 hours. On the upside, once brewed, the potion never spoiled and contained enough for up to fifty hours of use.
Another one that interested her was the ability to effectively imperius someone without ever lifting a wand. A much more gruesome sacrifice though. It involved decapitating a grindylow and removing its brain. Nope. Not doing that.
Aside from studying disturbing rituals involving animal sacrifice, Lydia focused her energy on mastering more advanced defensive magic. Her current goal was Ardeat—a spell that struck with the force of a stinging jinx but left behind third-degree burns.
She was growing increasingly eager to practice Legilimency. She had attempted it on Draco, but even when his walls were down, she struggled to fully break through. It was frustrating—how close she came, only to be pushed out moments later. One night, as they sat together on the velvet sofa in the Chamber's drawing room, she turned to him. “I want to try again,” she said. He gave a small nod, settling back, his silver eyes fixed on hers. “Go on, then.”
They faced each other in silence and she narrowed her focus, her magic reaching out and brushing against the edges of his mind. The first few tries ended the way they always did—she slipped in for a handful of seconds before the connection faltered. But on the fourth attempt, something clicked. She found the thread of a memory and followed it.
She was standing in the gardens of Malfoy Manor. It was summer, and Draco couldn’t have been older than seven. His hair was a little longer, falling into his eyes as he ran through the hedges barefoot, laughing. Narcissa was there—seated beneath a parasol with a book in one hand and a glass of iced tea in the other. She looked up and smiled as Draco darted past her, pretending to duel an invisible opponent with a stick.
“Very brave, my knight,” she called out, indulgently amused.
“I’m protecting the Manor from intruders!” young Draco shouted, slashing his stick through the air. “They’re after Father’s spellbooks!”
“Oh dear,” Narcissa said, feigning worry. “Be sure to show them no mercy.”
Draco grinned and ran off again, disappearing into the hedgerows.
Lydia slipped out of his mind, “aww, you were so cute!” She doubled over with giggles.
“Am I not still?” He asked with a smirk.
She shrugged and said sarcastically, “I think you’ve lost your touch.”
He playfully hit her arm. “Never.”
“Okay, okay, again.” She put her wand to his head. “Legilimens.”
She found herself in a dimly lit room, his bedroom, she realized, warm with candle light and shadows. Draco was maybe eight years old, curled up in a massive four-poster bed. It was storming outside—rain tapping steadily against the windows, thunder rumbling in the distance.
Narcissa was sitting on the edge of the bed, brushing her fingers through his hair. He was half-asleep, his small frame bundled beneath the covers, clutching a stuffed dragon to his chest.
“Will the thunder get in?” he asked.
“Of course not. The wards protect against far worse things than thunder.”
That made him smile, eyes fluttering shut.
She leaned down and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Sleep, darling. You’re safe.”
The memory blurred as the dreaminess took over, and Lydia pulled back.
When she returned to herself, Draco was already watching her, face unreadable.
“You were afraid of thunder?” she teased, trying to break the quiet.
He gave a small smirk. “I was eight.” Then, with a shrug, “She always made it better.”
She pinched his cheek, “are you still afraid of thunder?”
“Only yours,” he said, voice low, gaze locked on hers.
She blushed, rising from where she sat with her knees tucked beneath her, and slowly crawled over to him. Her hands found his chest, guiding him back against the cushions until she was straddling him. “You think I have thunder?”
“The most,” he said, his voice low and stormy.
He laced his fingers through her hair and pulled her toward him, their mouths hovering just centimeters apart. She closed her eyes, inhaling deeply, his scent intoxicating. Then, softly, she pressed a kiss to his cheek. He exhaled against her neck, a shudder running through her. Her lips traced a path from his cheek to his jaw, then down to his neck, leaving slow, featherlight kisses in her wake. He toyed with her hair, gently pulling it to one side to expose the smooth curve of her neck. His lips found her pulse point and pressed deep, lingering kisses there, sending a warm ache through her. His mouth traveled upward, teeth grazing her earlobe before giving it a playful bite. She let out a soft breath and pressed her body closer to his, savoring the heat of his touch. Their lips met—slow, deliberate, intimate. His tongue slid past her lips, moving in time with hers, a quiet, hungry rhythm. “Take your robe off,” he whispered into her ear.
She obeyed, slipping out of it until she was down to her jumper and skirt. He sat up slightly, hooked his fingers beneath the hem of her jumper, and pulled it over her head, leaving her in her bra. His hand moved to one of her breasts, tugging down the fabric to free it. He traced his thumb over her hardened nipple, teasing it gently as his eyes drank her in.
He pinched her nipple, eliciting a soft, surprised squeal from her lips. A wicked smirk tugged at his mouth. His other hand slid down to her waist, then lower, cupping and caressing her arse with deliberate pressure. She rocked against him instinctively, the friction sending sparks through her body. Every movement, every breath, was charged. Her fingers moved to the buttons of his shirt, undoing them one by one with teasing slowness. As the fabric parted, his bare chest was revealed—pale, toned, warm beneath her touch. She traced her fingers lightly over his pale skin, feeling his breath beneath her fingertips. Draco leaned up, capturing her lips again—hungrier now. His hands roamed her body, possessive and sure. When he pulled back, his eyes met hers, dark and wanting. “Skirt next,” voice rough with need.
She awkwardly shimmied out of her skirt, leaving her in only her bra and knickers, a matching black set. He looked at her in awe, “you’re,” he kissed her shoulder, “absolutely,” another kiss, “beautiful,” another kiss.
She blushed, slipping his shirt fully off and tossing it aside. In one swift, fluid motion, he grabbed her by the waist and rolled them over, pressing her into the cushions as he came to rest above her. She gasped softly at the feel of his hardness pressed firmly against her through the thin layers of fabric. Their mouths met again—this time with more urgency. They kissed fervently, hands exploring, every movement soaked in heat and need.
His fingers found the top of her knickers. “I want to taste you,” he said—his voice low, a question more than a demand. She nodded, breathless, completely undone by the way he looked at her. He moved down her body, trailing kisses along her skin as he slid her knickers down her thighs, revealing her inch by inch. When she instinctively pressed her legs together, a flush of embarrassment rising, he looked up at her with nothing but tenderness. “I’ve got you, baby,”
She exhaled, trying to relax. He pressed a soft kiss to her knee, then to the other, taking his time. Slowly, deliberately, he kissed his way inward—closer and closer to the place between her thighs. His fingers found her, gliding slowly up and down her slit, spreading the wetness that was already pooling there. He took his time, exploring her with gentle, deliberate strokes, learning what made her hips twitch, what made her breath catch. Then, without warning, he slid two fingers inside her. She gasped at the sudden intrusion, her body tightening around him.
“You’re so tight,” he murmured, voice thick with arousal. Before she could respond, his mouth was on her—lips and tongue finding her clit, teasing it with agonizing slowness. He circled it carefully, adjusting to her reactions, searching for the perfect rhythm. Every nerve in her body felt like it had been set ablaze. Her back arched, fingers tangling in his hair, thighs trembling with each flick of his tongue and curl of his fingers.
“You taste so good, baby,” he groaned against her, the vibration of his voice sending another wave of pleasure through her. Lydia couldn’t speak—only moan, lost in the overwhelming heat building inside her. He picked up the pace slightly, his mouth and fingers working in perfect tandem, coaxing her closer and closer to the edge.
Her breaths came faster now—shallow, uneven, broken by soft moans she couldn’t contain. Draco’s fingers curled inside her just right, brushing that perfect spot with every stroke. His mouth stayed locked on her clit, tongue moving in slow, deliberate circles before flicking faster, more confidently, each movement driving her higher. Her thighs clenched around his head, but he didn’t stop—in fact, he groaned into her, gripping her hips to keep her steady as she writhed beneath him. “Draco—” she gasped, her voice nearly a whimper.
He looked up at her, eyes dark and hungry. “You’re close,” he said, the words rough with need. “Let go for me.”
The pleasure ripped through her, white-hot and unstoppable. Her back arched, her mouth falling open in a silent cry as wave after wave of release crashed over her. He didn’t stop until she was trembling, completely gone, sinking back into the cushions in breathless surrender. He kissed the inside of her thigh, then slowly moved back up her body, leaving a trail of warmth in his wake. When he reached her face, he looked down at her with a soft, satisfied smirk. “Beautiful,” he brushed a strand of hair from her face. She smiled up at him, flushed and still catching her breath.
Their foreheads rested together, breath mingling in the charged stillness between them. Lydia's heart was still racing, her body warm and soft in the aftermath of what he’d just done to her. She felt dizzy—in the best way—like she was floating somewhere between comfort and craving. Her fingers trailed through his hair, slow and aimless, trying to ground herself. Then he kissed her—gentle at first, but it deepened quickly, a quiet desperation behind it. When he pulled back, his voice was low, breath hot against her cheek. “My turn.”
She gave a small laugh, nerves fluttering in her stomach like moths to flame. She was still trembling from the high he'd given her, but the idea of touching him like that—of seeing him like that—made her pulse quicken all over again. “Tell me what to do.”
She was nervous. What if he didn’t like it? What if she couldn’t make him feel the way he’d just made her feel? The thought buzzed in her head, but the heat in the room, in his eyes, kept her from pulling away. He unfastened his belt with shaking hands, then pushed his trousers and boxers down just enough to free himself. He was hard—completely bare before her—and though Lydia didn’t exactly know what counted as big, she was fairly certain he wasn’t small.
“Spit,” he said, voice low and feverish.
Her cheeks flushed, but she did as he asked, letting it fall into her hand before wrapping her fingers around him. He groaned instantly, his head tipping back, then snapping forward again—his eyes locked onto hers with such intensity, it felt like he could see right through her.
She started slow, stroking him gently, testing what felt right by the way of his breath, by the way his hand fisted in the cushion beside him.
“Just like that,” he commanded, voice strained. “Lydia—fuck.”
The sound of her name on his lips like that lit something inside her. She kept going, a little faster now, watching the tension in his jaw build, the muscles in his stomach tightening. Then, with a sudden, uncontrollable groan, he came—hot and fast—spilling onto her stomach as his hips jerked up slightly. He collapsed, panting, his chest rising and falling. She stared at him, heart racing, completely overwhelmed in the best possible way. He opened his eyes after a moment and looked at her, dazed and completely wrecked. “You’re perfect,” he whispered, voice still thick with everything they’d just shared.
He reached for his wand, gave it a small flick, and the mess vanished instantly.They settled into each other, limbs tangled, hearts still racing. For a while, they just lay there in silence, letting the moment stretch and settle around them like a warm blanket. No need for words—just the quiet rise and fall of their chests.
—
The final task of the Triwizard Tournament had arrived. Lydia and Draco sat together in the stands, shoulder to shoulder beneath the bright afternoon sun, Pansy on her left.. Draco was unapologetically cheering for Cedric, clapping and whistling with the rest of the Slytherins. Lydia, on the other hand, found her gaze fixed on Harry. Despite everything—the fallout, the silence, the lingering hurt—she still wanted him to do well. To win. They weren’t speaking, hadn’t been all year, but that didn’t erase the time they’d shared. Some part of her, quiet but persistent, still cared.
Around them, the stands buzzed with excitement. Music blared, students and visitors shouted and laughed, banners waved in the breeze. The energy was electric as the four champions made their way toward the towering hedges of the maze. She leaned forward, watching Harry disappear into the greenery, her heart unexpectedly tight.
The task, like most of them, was painfully dull—except for the dragons, of course. That had been worth watching. Now, with the champions swallowed up by the towering hedges, the crowd was left staring at a maze they couldn’t see into. No action, no commentary, just waiting.
Lydia spent most of the time chatting with Pansy about who they thought would win, while Theo sat on Pansy’s other side, making sarcastic, cutting remarks about Harry every few minutes.
“I swear, if Potter trips over his own ego and knocks himself out, I’ll consider that a win,” Theo muttered.
Pansy snorted, not disagreeing. She was convinced Viktor Krum would take the Cup. Lydia suspected it wasn’t just confidence in his skills—Pansy had been unusually dreamy whenever his name came up.
“You fancy him,” Lydia teased under her breath.
Pansy rolled her eyes but didn’t deny it. “He’s international. And he’s brooding. Obviously.”
Lydia smirked but didn’t argue. She glanced back at the maze, where absolutely nothing was visible, and sighed.
“Still think Harry’s going to win,” she said, mostly to herself.
After what felt like hours of waiting, a sudden flash of blue light appeared near the center of the stadium. Gasps rippled through the crowd as two figures slammed onto the grass, crumpled and tangled. Harry and Cedric. For a moment, there was confusion—then a wave of cheers erupted, thinking it was over, that they'd returned victorious. Lydia stood, clapping, her heart pounding. But something didn’t feel right.
Harry was on his knees, gripping Cedric’s body—too tightly. Cedric wasn’t moving. The cheering faltered. Whispers began. Her eyes narrowed, her stomach twisting. Cedric was too still. Limp. His head lolled unnaturally to the side, his eyes open and lifeless. Harry was shouting something, frantic and hoarse. She strained to hear it over the crowd. Then she caught it.
“HE’S BACK!” Harry screamed. “VOLDEMORT—HE’S BACK! HE’S BACK!” Her blood ran cold. She turned to Draco, who was staring at the scene in disbelief, all the color drained from his face. “What’s going on?” she asked, barely able to get the words out.
But Draco didn’t respond. He just stood there, frozen, eyes locked on the scene before them.
Dumbledore was the first to move, striding quickly toward where Harry knelt, still clutching Cedric’s body. He knelt beside him, speaking softly, urgently. After a moment, Harry nodded, dazed and trembling, and allowed Professor Moody to help him to his feet. Lydia watched as Harry was led away, his face pale and streaked with tears, before vanishing into the maze of professors and officials.
Then a voice pierced the air—raw, agonized. “MY BOY! THAT'S MY BOY!”
Amos Diggory burst through the crowd, stumbling and shoving his way toward his son. He collapsed beside Cedric’s body with a wail so full of pain it silenced the entire stadium. He gathered Cedric in his arms, rocking him like he was still a small child, sobbing into him.
Her heart cracked open. Her throat tightened, and tears spilled over before she could even think to stop them. She couldn’t Occlude, couldn’t shut it out—Cedric was really gone. Beside her, Draco reached for her hand without a word, threading their fingers together and holding on tight. His grip was steady, grounding, even as his own face was pale and shaken. She squeezed back, her eyes locked on Cedric’s still form, unable to look away, the sound of his father’s cries echoing in her bones.
—
The Slytherin common room was filled with tension. Some students were grieving, others visibly anxious. The older ones wore unreadable expressions, but Lydia could see it: the anticipation behind their eyes. Without a word, Draco took Lydia’s hand and led her up to his dorm. The others followed—Pansy, Daphne, Theo, Blaise, Greg, and Vincent—moving like ghosts, no one quite knowing what to say. Once inside, she couldn’t sit still. She paced the length of the room, hands shaking, breath shallow. The others lingered around, keeping to themselves, each struggling to process the impossible. He’s back. The words echoed in her head, over and over. You-Know-Who is back.
What did that mean? What was going to happen? Would Hogwarts be safe? Would any of them?
She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to calm the rising panic. Then Pansy stepped forward without a word, took her hand, and gently pulled her toward one of the beds. “Come on,” she said softly, guiding Lydia to sit beside her. She sat down, her legs suddenly heavy, her thoughts still a chaotic blur. Pansy didn’t let go of her hand. Neither of them spoke. They just sat there, the silence around them loud with everything unspoken.
—
They gathered for the End-of-Year Feast, though it felt nothing like the celebrations of years past. The Great Hall, usually buzzing with excitement and laughter, was quiet—somber. The house banners hung as always, the food appeared as expected, but the mood was subdued. Students spoke in hushed tones, many still shaken by what had happened. When Dumbledore stood to give his end-of-year speech, all eyes turned to him. His expression was grave, his usual twinkle dimmed.
“The end of another year. There is much that I would like to say to you all tonight, but I must first acknowledge the loss of a very fine person, who should be sitting here, enjoying our feast with us. I would like you all, please, to stand, and raise your glasses, to Cedric Diggory.”
They all stood and raised their goblets, “Cedric Diggory.”
“Cedric was a person who exemplified many of the qualities that distinguish Hufflepuff House. He was a good and loyal friend, a hard worker, he valued fair play. His death has affected you all, whether you knew him well or not. I think you have the right, therefore, to know exactly how it came about. Cedric Diggory was murdered by Lord Voldemort. The Ministry of Magic does not wish me to tell you this. It is possible that some of your parents will be horrified that I have done so—either because they will not believe that Lord Voldemort has returned, or because they think I should not tell you so, young as you are. It is my belief, however, that the truth is generally preferable to lies, and that any attempt to pretend that Cedric died as the result of an accident, or some sort of blunder of his own, is an insult to his memory.”
The hall was filled with whispers. So he really was back. Her relative. The one that caused so much pain and suffering. The reason her mother was dead.
Dumbldore continued. “There is somebody else who must be mentioned in connection with Cedric’s death. I am talking, of course, about Harry Potter.”
People’s heads turned toward Harry. She grabbed Draco’s hand under the table and squeezed it.
Dumbledore continued on with his speech, and concluded with his emphasis on sticking together in the wake of these new developments.
—
The Burrow felt different when they returned from Hogwarts. The usual warmth and noise had been replaced by a heavy, lingering silence. Even Fred and George, normally a whirlwind of laughter and mischief, sat quietly at the dinner table, barely touching their food. Conversation was sparse—small talk about grades, weather, anything but what they were all really thinking about. Then Ron spoke. He looked directly at Lydia, his voice steady but quiet. “Lucius Malfoy was there.” Her eyes flicked up from her plate, locking on his. She didn’t need to ask what he meant.
“When You-Know-Who came back,” Ron added, “he was there. Harry told me.”
Lydia didn’t flinch. She’d expected this. After what happened at the Quidditch World Cup—the chaos, the Death Eater masks, the way Lucius had slipped away—it had only been a matter of time before the truth came out.
Her Occlumency kicked in, walling off the reaction threatening to rise. “I see,” was all she said.
The rest of them looked at her—some with concern, others with unease—until Arthur cleared his throat, breaking the tension.
“I should tell you all,” he began, “next week, we’re going to a safe house.”
“A safe house?” Ginny echoed, confused.
Arthur nodded. “Yes. Now that You-Know-Who is back, precautions are being taken.”
She had learned from Ginny that Professor Moody was actually Barty Crouch Jr.—a Death Eater who had somehow escaped Azkaban without anyone noticing. He had been the one to orchestrate the portkey that delivered Harry straight to You-Know-Who. She couldn’t believe Dumbledore hadn’t realized the man, supposedly a longtime friend, wasn’t actually him. Her trust in the Headmaster dropped significantly. Of course, she had always heard unfavorable comments about Dumbledore from her fellow Slytherins, while her family and the Gryffindors constantly praised him as if he were infallible. A lot of revelations came out that night.
—
Number 12 Grimmauld Place lived up to its name—grim. Dusty, dark, and deeply depressing, it felt more like a mausoleum than a home. Why this had to be their safe house, Lydia didn’t know. She kept her thoughts to herself, but silently, she longed to be with Draco.
They were greeted at the door by Sirius Black, Harry’s godfather. He tried to seem cheerful, cracking jokes and smiling wide—but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. Still, Lydia appreciated the effort. It was her first time meeting him, and despite everything, she found herself surprised. He was handsome in a worn, wild sort of way—shoulder-length black hair, a sharp jaw, a lean but well-built frame. There was something intense about him.
He showed them where their rooms were, and Lydia was told she’d be sharing with Ginny. As they made their way through the hallway, they passed the portrait of Walburga Black—Sirius’ mother—who shrieked bloody murder about blood traitors the moment a noise was made. Sirius rolled his eyes and yanked the curtains shut.
Their room was quaint, about the same size as the one they shared back at the Burrow. The walls were faded, the furniture old but serviceable. Their days quickly fell into a dull rhythm, most of it spent cleaning out old rooms filled with strange, useless, or outright disturbing junk—thanks, to Molly’s insistence on keeping the place livable.
But one afternoon, while clearing out a dusty upstairs study, Lydia stumbled upon something that made her pause. Hidden behind a stack of moth-eaten books and a crumbling chair was a small locket with an S on it. Salazar Slytherin? It felt dark but something was pulling her towards it, so instead of disposing of it, or telling anyone, she pocketed it.
Most of her free time was spent in the Black family library. Although on the smaller side, the contents of the texts made up for it. There were tomes on magic only known by the Black family, and more books on Legilimency, which was a Black family trait.
She learned about the ability to influence someone through Legilimency. It could be as subtle as a gentle nudge to make someone agree with you, or as invasive as planting memories and thoughts directly into their mind. The more subtle the intrusion, the less noticeable it was. For those without any knowledge of mental defense, it was almost always completely undetectable. As she scoured the contents of her readings, she became determined to test it during one of her dream visits to Draco. She wasn’t sure how effective it would be in that setting, but she couldn’t risk trying it on anyone around her in case someone realized what she was doing.
—
That night, Lydia slipped into her usual meditation, letting her mind drift until she found herself standing in the moonlit gardens of Malfoy Manor. The air was cool and fragrant, the familiar scent of roses and trimmed hedges wrapping around her like a memory.
Then—“Lydia!”
Draco appeared from around the fountain, his eyes lighting up the moment he saw her. He ran straight toward her and pulled her into a tight, spinning hug, lifting her off the ground.
“Salazar, I missed you,” he whispered, kissing her all over her face—cheeks, nose, forehead—until she pushed at his chest, laughing breathlessly.
“I’m sorry I didn’t come see you sooner,” she said, still smiling. She had meant to visit him in a dream sooner, but was feeling so anxious about everything that she couldn’t concentrate on her meditation.
“It’s okay, baby,” he replied softly, now stepping back just enough to take her in. His hands ran down her arms as he looked her over, checking her face, her posture, every detail. “You’re alright?”
“I’m fine,” she assured him, brushing her fingers through his hair. “How are things?”
“Weird,” he said bluntly.
He sighed, his brow furrowed. “My father’s always gone, and my mother… she won’t say anything, but I can tell she’s tense. Like she’s holding her breath. They won’t tell me anything about the Dark Lord being back.”
Lydia hesitated before speaking. “Ron said Harry saw your father there. The night he came back.”
Draco’s jaw tightened. He exhaled through his nose. “I expected as much,” he said, the words heavy with frustration. “He was always loyal. They just kept it quiet while the Dark Lord was gone.”
Lydia reached for his hand and gave it a squeeze.
“Do you still want to be with me?” Draco asked suddenly, his voice quiet but intense.
She blinked. “What? What do you mean?” She was caught off guard by the question and by the vulnerability behind it.
“My father… he’s a Death Eater,” He said, looking away. “Things are different now.”
Without hesitation, she stepped forward and grabbed his face, turning it back to hers. “You’re an idiot.”
Affronted, he said, “what’s that supposed to mean?”
She rolled her eyes. “It means I don’t give a fuck what your father is doing. I want you.”
He stared at her. “But I’ll… I’ll get dragged into it. Eventually. You know I will.” His voice was rougher now, laced with something close to fear.
“And like I said,” she replied, more firmly, “you’re an idiot. My idiot. And I’m not going to abandon you because of this.”
Relief flooded his face, and he pulled her against him, holding her like she might slip away. He kissed her forehead, lingering there for a moment before pulling back just enough to look at her again.
“So,” he said, trying to steady himself, “what have you been up to?”
She exhaled. “Nothing interesting. We moved into…into” She trailed off, her brow furrowing. Why couldn’t she say it? What the fuck?
“Into what?” Draco asked, watching her.
“I can’t say,” she said, shaking her head slightly.
“What do you mean you can’t say?”
Then it hit her. Her eyes widened. “It’s under the Fidelius Charm. That’s why—I literally can’t say it. But it’s a safe house.”
Draco looked troubled by that, but nodded slowly. “Good,” he said. “I’m glad you’re safe. Even if I can’t know where you are.”
They spent the next couple of hours catching up, wrapped in the comfort of being near each other again, even if only in dreams. They talked about the past few weeks apart. He told her about the eerie quiet at the Manor, the tension. She told him what little she could about life at the safe house—carefully omitting certain details. She didn’t mention the locket she found. For some reason it felt personal. Too personal.
“Can I try something on you?” She asked him.
He smirked, “you can try anything on me,” he said suggestively.
She looked at him sternly, “that’s not what I meant. I’ve been reading up on some complex Legilimency. Ways to put suggestions, thoughts, memories in someone’s mind.”
“Where the hell are you staying with books like that?” He arched a brow.
“You know I can’t say. Can I try? Please?”
“Fine. Fine. Go ahead.”
She touched his arm and put a small, harmless thought in his head. I’m hungry.
Looking at him, she watched for any reaction.
“Did you do it?” He asked.
“I’m not sure, how do you feel? Did you have any new thoughts?”
He pondered, “I didn’t feel you in my mind. I was only thinking about getting some food.”
She gleamed and jumped up and down clapping her hands. “That’s exactly what I told you!! That you’re hungry!”
“Really? It just felt like a passing thought.” He looked at her in confusion.
Giggling at her success, she patted him on the shoulder and smiled with satisfaction. It worked—it really worked. And he hadn’t noticed. Emboldened, she tried again, this time fabricating a memory and slipping it into his mind. But since he knew how to occlude, he noticed that one.
They both grew quieter, more aware of the time slipping by. “You should get some sleep,” Draco said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.
“Yeah,” she muttered. “I’ll see you soon.”
They kissed once—soft, lingering—before the gardens of Malfoy Manor dissolved into darkness.